In W. Scott Poole’s excellent monograph, Monsters in America (2011), he charts American history by exploring its monsters, arguing that the former is best understood through the latter (4). As he establishes this thesis in the book’s introduction, Poole provides a deceptively compelling insight as a brief throwaway line; he writes, “A monster is a beast of excess, and monster stories are tales of excess” (xiv).1 His point here is that monsters defy easy definitions because horror films tend to seek out contradictions and complexities and subvert narrative conventions, reveling in the (bloody) excess of rendering them on screen in the form of a monster and all of the carnage it wreaks.
There is another way to read Poole’s claim, however, that monsters tend to be defined by a characteristic or two that have been taken to the extreme, that have exceeded what society considers normal. Understanding this interpretation of the role that excess plays in the creation of a monster can open up how we make meaning of horror films.
A great illustrative example is the Australian horror film The Loved Ones (2009, dir. Sean Byrne). As explained more fully in this Horror Homeroom review, Lola is a psychotic high schooler who kidnaps her classmate, Brent, after he politely turns her down for the prom. Not to be deterred, Lola enlists her overly-acquiescent father’s help to host her own prom in the dining room of their rural home, where she tortures Brent with an injection, knives, and a drill before attempting to kill him (multiple times).
Lola exceeds social boundaries at every turn, from the possessive and violent manner in which she expresses her romantic feelings to, more plainly, the act of kidnapping and killing other human beings. This behavior casts Lola as deeply monstrous, but it is her disturbing relationship with her “Daddy” that reveals the root of her monstrosity.
After crowning herself prom queen and determining Brent is “just another frog” rather than her Prince Charming, Lola insists on dancing with her father, whom she crowns prom king. As they sway to her favorite song, “Not Pretty Enough” (by Kasey Chambers), she confesses to him, “You’re the Prince. That’s why I can’t find one I like. It’s always been you, Daddy.” She then puckers her lips and leans in for her fairy tale kiss, her father reluctantly submitting. This incestuous twist is horrifying precisely because it unveils the excessive extent to which Lola is truly “Daddy’s Little Girl.” In doing so, it demonstrates the problematic nature of fathers coddling their daughters by calling them “Princess” and acceding to their every whim in a misguided effort to ‘give them the world.’ This coddling can breed a dangerous sense of entitlement, as The Loved Ones illustrates, transforming daddy’s little girl into daddy’s little monster.
The Babadook (2014, dir. Jennifer Kent), also an Aussie horror film, makes another excellent example of the monster as a beast of excess. In this case, as has been analyzed and critiqued in other Horror Homeroom articles, the Babadook represents the psychological manifestation of Amelia’s repressed trauma and unreconciled grief over her husband’s sudden death seven years ago.
Virtually every detail of this finely crafted movie builds this metaphorical connection. The children’s pop-up book Mister Babadook mysteriously appears on her son’s bookshelf in the days leading up to his birthday, a date Amelia refuses to celebrate because it also marks the anniversary of Oskar’s death. The narration of the dark tale prophetically claims, “The more you deny me, the stronger I get,” a blunt challenge to Amelia to face the monster that represents her loss. That monster, the Babadook, dons a hat and jacket similar to what we later see displayed in the basement alongside Oskar’s violin and other belongings, establishing the film’s most explicit link between the two characters.
It becomes clear that the Babadook is an extension of Amelia, explaining why the storybook and its titular monster inevitably return no matter Amelia’s attempts to rid herself of them. It is as the book says: “You can’t get rid of the Babadook.”
Amelia becomes consumed by her repressed trauma—her trait of excess—gradually transmogrifying into a monster unhinged by her stubborn unwillingness to grieve. It is only through Samuel’s enduring love and her powerful confrontation with the Babadook that she manages to gain control over her inner demon.
In a refreshing bit of storytelling, we discover the Babadook never truly leaves Amelia. Instead, she harbors it in the basement with Oskar’s belongings, showing in realistic fashion how her memories of him and the trauma of his death must coexist. The film, then, serves as a cautionary tale of how loss, when fervently denied and left to fester, can consume oneself to with destructive consequences.
And, lastly, Ginger’s coming-of-age transformation in the Canadian horror film, Ginger Snaps (2000, dir. John Fawcett), provides a fantastic final example of how traits of excess define the monster. Immediately upon experiencing her menarche, Ginger is bitten by a werewolf and subsequently begins her own monstrous metamorphosis. Thick hair on her shoulders and legs, sudden facial developments, and an insatiable appetite for flesh show lycanthropy to be eerily reminiscent of puberty, her extreme hormonal fluctuations causing the adolescent body to run amok.
Lycanthropic changes in Ginger Snaps
These physical changes and her carnal urges alienate Ginger from her sister and best friend Brigitte, as well as from her classmates at school and society as a whole. The blurred line between sex and violence created by Ginger’s “hunger” leads her to assault her new boyfriend and eventually to murder. Her werewolf transformation complete, Ginger loses all semblance of humanity and dies by Brigitte’s hand when Ginger lunges at her sister in their shared bedroom.
The excess of Ginger’s pubescent changes gives society license to kill her, but her tragic death implores viewers to consider how adolescence, in all its angst and despite what 90s teen rom-coms may say, entails a bodily transformation that can be at once socially and corporeally alienating as well as ripe with personal suffering.
The list of horror films exemplifying the interpretative approach provided here goes on and on. Releases from this year alone, from Brightburn to Ma to Pet Sematary to Godzilla: King of Monsters, are no different. One can pinpoint the monster’s trait of excess and unpack its meaning, giving way to a new understanding, and hopefully appreciation, of the film’s message and of horror cinema more broadly.
Notes:
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- Poole, W. Scott. Monsters in America: Our Historical Obsession with the Hideous and the Haunting. Baylor UP, 2011.
Cody Parish earned his master’s degree in English: Literary and Cultural Studies from Illinois State University and works as the Redwine Honors Program Coordinator at Midwestern State University. His research interests primarily revolve around horror cinema.
